


Sartorial

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010), The Culture - Iain M. Banks
Genre: Alternate Universe - Utopia, Community: au_bingo, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur and Eames, in the course of their Special Circumstances assignments, have survived volcanoes, tidal waves, a formal Embassy dinner and a firing range: moreover, they have done so without sacrificing sartorial elegance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sartorial

~You won't need me once the ROU picks us up. We can go our separate ways.

~Oh, not this again. Why wouldn't I need you?

~You've already mentioned how much you miss wearing inanimate garments, darling, despite that rather fetching outfit I rustled up for you during our last mission. And you persist in refusing my assistance with all but the most menial --

~Shut up, Eames.

~You could get yourself an intelligent tattoo: it won't object to your condescension, and it could manage some basic translation, some --

~Shut _up_.

Due to the sudden catastrophic failure of GCU _The Most Resilient Parasite_ (which in turn was due to the sudden, unheralded arrival of an Idiran warship in close proximity), Arthur and his gelfield suit have been spending rather more time in one another's company than either would prefer. Arthur is, of course, grateful to the suit (which has adopted the name 'Eames') for providing him with life support, communications, and company during the long and tedious fall towards the nearest sun; _into_ it, if the worst comes to the worst, because gelfield suits are famous for being tough enough to resist the most extreme environments. Arthur and Eames, in the course of their Special Circumstances assignments, have survived volcanoes, tidal waves, a formal Embassy dinner and a firing range: moreover, they have done so without sacrificing sartorial elegance.

Eames' talents aren't limited to protection and camouflage. If it weren't for the suit's creativity in piggybacking a distress signal on the Idiran warship's own comms, Arthur's plight would have gone unacknowledged, and he'd have had to go into suspended animation until such time as a Culture vessel ventured close enough to pick up his distress signal. Instead, he and Eames are tumbling slowly through the void between the stars, waiting for the Rapid Offensive Unit _Dream a Little Bigger, Darling_ to scoop them up in the next hour or so.

All well and good, except that Eames will not let Arthur forget it. Also, Eames' taste in music is wholly dissimilar to Arthur's, and it's Eames' turn to pick a song. Arthur is still trying to get the last one -- a noxiously catchy earworm, the lyrics of which seem to consist solely of detailed descriptions of sex -- out of his head. Eames, who is not only a thin tough layer of gel separating Arthur from the vacuum but also a >1.0-value node-distributed brain possessed of full sentience and considerable idiosyncrasy, can _do_ subtlety, but seldom chooses to exercise this capability.

~I still maintain we could have neutralised the Idiran ship if you'd let me handle things. We're Special Circumstances, we --

~I guess we'll never know, says Arthur.

He'd sleep, if he had longer to wait: he's perfectly comfortable despite the near-total absence of heat, light, gravity out here. If he asked, Eames would turn opaque to give Arthur the illusion of darkness: he doesn't ask.

~You're probably looking forward to being with other biological persons, ventures Eames after a while.

Arthur, who's trying not to listen to the words of Eames' latest recommendation, is grateful for the interruption.

~I guess so. What're you planning, once we part ways?

~Oh, I'll find myself some company. There's sure to be a drone or two who fancies being in Thrall with me.

Arthur rolls his eyes, fully cognisant of the fact that Eames can feel every movement that he makes. He absolutely does not want to think about drone-sex. Even if it's wholly cerebral.

~Unless you'd like to reconsider your earlier refusal, Eames adds.

~Humans don't _do_ Thrall. We're all about the meat.

~Actually, Arthur, I think you'll find _I'm_ all about -- in the sense of 'around' -- the meat.

Arthur can't help gasping at the sensation of the gelsuit rippling, gentle as a caress through silk, across his skin.

~We're more intimately juxtaposed than any two humans could ever be, comes Eames' voice directly in Arthur's inner ear.

~I look for rather more than mere proximity in my lovers.

~ _Do_ tell. You never know: I might have an upgrade and show up in your bed as the avatar of your dreams.

Laughing in a gelsuit always brings to mind the imagined sensation of suffocation. The suit bubbles out, briefly, around Arthur's exhaled breath: catches and filters and recycles it, and comes to rest against Arthur's mouth like a kiss. _Nothing_ like a kiss, Arthur corrects himself firmly. It's been too fucking long since he's kissed another human. (Even longer since he did so without Eames' constant presence.)

~Anything's possible, says Eames. ~This is the Culture, after all. Hedonism is positively encouraged, and physical constraints are there to be overcome.

~Just because something's possible doesn't mean it's desirable.

~Of course, it might be that you don't find my personality attractive, Eames is saying. Whinily.

~I don't find you unattractive, says Arthur, watching the distant points of light spiralling around the two of them.

~How very equivocal of you, Arthur.

~If you were --

~If I were what? Human? Biological? Made of meat?

~If you weren't around any more, I'd miss you, says Arthur sweetly. ~Miss your complaints, anyway.

~Nobody's ever going to make you look as good as I do, promises Eames.

~Nobody's ever going to make me feel as --

~Fabulous? interrupts Eames.

~Frustrated, says Arthur grimly. ~I --

But suddenly they're no longer alone in the infinite void. A huge dark shape blots out a substantial percentage of visible stars, a rich rounded voice addresses them both on the general channel.

"Please do come aboard! I hope you haven't found the wait too tedious: we had to divert briefly to drop off another guest," says _Dream a Little Bigger, Darling_.

"Thank you," says Arthur, with heartfelt sincerity.

Once they're aboard the ROU, Eames unpeels silently from around Arthur, compresses into a head-sized ball of indeterminate colour, and floats away, still silent, to get clean.

~Eames? says Arthur on their private channel, standing naked in the cabin he's been assigned, and _feeling_ naked in a way that has nothing to do with bare skin.

~I'll find you later, comes Eames' voice. ~I've an upgrade to arrange.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the summary _should_ read "Arthur is a Special Circumstances operative. Eames is his gelfield suit." Given the fanon take on Arthur's dress-code, I am astonished that nobody has written Eames-as-clothing. (or have they, and I've missed it?)
> 
> perhaps an obscure take on 'utopia' but Banks' [Culture](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Culture) is as close to a utopia as anything in SF, while retaining considerable interest.


End file.
